“Don!”

The sharp note of disappointment in Barbara’s voice sent the blood into his cheeks.

“Stand on your own feet,” she said.  “What would Mr. Wall think of you?  Did the old-time scouts like Daniel Boone go running for help every time they found themselves in trouble?”

The boy did not answer.  There was a long silence.  Barbara touched his arm.

“Angry, Don?”

“No.  I—­I guess I’ll fight my own way,” he said.

Somehow, that determination seemed to lighten his worries.  He went upstairs and wrote his letters.  Afterward he picked up his Handbook and idly turned the pages.  Presently his eyes fell on the tenth law: 

“He has the courage to face danger in spite of fear ... and defeat does not down him.”  Next he read the fourth law, “He is a friend to all and a brother to every other scout.”  And then he closed the book and for a long time stared straight ahead.

Friday brought a busy day—­bird-houses all morning, baseball practice in the afternoon, and a troop meeting at night.

During the morning, as Don planed, and sawed, and hammered, he whistled a gay air.  But after dinner, as the time for baseball practice approached, the whistle became subdued and at last stopped.

Up to now he had pitched against high-school boys, lads of his own age.  Tomorrow, though, he was to face a town team with its older, more experienced players.  He wondered if he would be able to make good.  And he wondered, just a little, how he and Tim would work together.

He might have saved himself the worry of wondering about Tim, for that afternoon’s practice gave no time for anything save work.  Ted Carter drove the players with a high-strung, nervous vim.  He seemed to find time for everything—­first a signal drill, then fielding, then sliding into bases.

Don was kept on the jump.  As soon as his arm was warm and limber Ted hustled him to the mound, and for fifteen minutes he stood there and threw to bases as signals were flashed to him.  Then Ted gave him ten minutes of fielding bunts.  By that time the sweat was running down his face and his breath was coming hard.

“Get into a sweater,” Ted ordered.  “I’ll want you back here in ten minutes.  Now, Tim, I’m going to let some of the fellows steal bases.  Let’s see you throw them out.”

Don was glad of the respite.  He retired beyond the foul lines and watched.  There was no doubt but that Tim knew his job.  Short and stocky and agile, he seemed made in a catcher’s mold.  He could reach second base with a forearm throw while squatting on his heels, and a snap of the wrist was enough to send the ball to first or to third.

“He’s got an awfully strong arm,” said Don to himself.

“All right, Don,” called Ted.

He shed his sweater and went back to the mound.  One by one the batters were called in to hit against him.  He watched for Tim’s signals, and tried to put the ball where Tim wanted it.  The batters hit him freely.